


Knight Magic: The Buck Stops Here

by suitesamba



Series: Knight Magic [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Humor, M/M, Quasi Case Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:29:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2907659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the "Knight Magic" world - Sherlock is the temporary Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts and is offering a special class on Muggle crime scene investigative techniques. John attends the class as a spectator, but is called upon by Sherlock to help establish cause of death.  In the absence of traditional victims, Sherlock has Hagrid help him out.  John is not amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knight Magic: The Buck Stops Here

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to this short story is in the works. In part 2, Sherlock will take a class to Bart's for a forensic field trip.

John Watson loved Fridays.

True, he worked at the surgery on Fridays, but only until one o’clock in the afternoon. He was back at 221B by two, and at Hogwarts thirty minutes after that, so that by the time three o’clock rolled around, and Sherlock’s last class was dismissed, he’d be waiting in the corridor, ready to sidle inside and stand at the back of the room, as Sherlock began his special weekly lesson on Muggle crime solving techniques.

Sherlock’s class drew a healthy crowd each week, from all seven forms, with first and second years sitting two to a desk sometimes, and the older students trickling in last and lining the walls. 

Sherlock was nonplussed by it all.

No – that wasn’t quite right. Sherlock was _buoyed_ by it.

For a man who claimed social ineptitude, he seemed to flourish in situations that allowed him to show off – or rather _demonstrate_ \- his skills.

He always made a dramatic entrance for this class, five or six minutes late. The students, clustering in the doorway and in the corridor beyond, would obediently part to allow him passage. 

He’d come a long way since he faced his first class of first years back in September.

Today, Sherlock, having announced a “special treat” the previous week, had arranged to hold class in the Room of Requirement. The headmistress had obligingly come early to set the room up, so that when the students arrived, they found their lecture hall, complete with lectern and desks, situated in a large forest clearing. A musty, moss-coloured tarp covered something behind the lectern, and decidedly out-of-place yellow crime scene tape surrounded it. 

Today, Sherlock was later than usual, and the students were becoming restless, peeking out into the corridor through the open door and chattering. A squeal of excitement heralded Sherlock’s imminent arrival, and a squadron of sixth and seventh year girls quickly scampered to the front, where they’d reserved desks with an unobstructed view of their favourite professor.

John grinned. He found it more amusing than annoying that Sherlock made half the population of Hogwarts giddy. It didn’t seem to matter that he was absolutely oblivious to their adulation, or that John himself attended nearly all of these sessions. The professor’s partner might as well have been invisible with all eyes on Professor Holmes as he prepared to begin a lesson.

Yes, John thought, Sherlock’s awkward and frantic fumbling of the first day of classes had long been replaced with a confident, if scattered, approach. Sherlock was every bit the absent-minded professor of yore when wandering about the castle and trying to organize homework and grades, constantly distracted by something almost everyone else took for granted – a ghost floating past, a staircase that moved unexpectedly, a figure in a portrait that called out to him. Yet when engaged in something he loved, he burned with a fiery intensity.

John turned his head toward the door when the chattering about him subsided. There were several loud gasps as Hagrid, not Sherlock, blundered into the room, and made his way forward. He stepped over the tape and pulled the tarp away with a dramatic flourish, revealing something that looked like the carpet they’d pulled out of John’s gran’s house after she died – the carpet that had been there since 1945. 

The something under the tarp was large, moth-eaten and furry.

And dead. Add dead to that list. A dead stag, if John squinted, and forced himself to stop thinking of ratty carpeting.

John straightened, craning his neck to see as Hagrid stepped back over the yellow tape barrier. The first few rows of students were attempting to push back in their desks, crowding the rows behind them, obviously trying to distance themselves from the thing. Or the thing’s smell – John was already getting a noseful of it at the back here, and it smelled like Gran’s old carpet had been used to wrap up and hide a murder victim for a few weeks. But the desks were sinking into the soft earth, and several students fell over as the mad backward push continued.

“Hagrid – thank you!” 

Sherlock strode into the classroom, his face lighting up in delight at seeing the dead thing already uncovered.

“Hagrid – you’ve outdone yourself,” he said, circling the creature, then looking up at Hagrid, beaming.

Hagrid blushed.

“Aww – wer’nt not’ing,” he said. 

John stood on tiptoe, studying the stag, which was far larger than any he’d ever seen. It sported an impressive rack of antlers, but was as thin and worn as the carpeting it resembled. 

“The victim,” announced Sherlock, addressing the class from the lectern just in front of the expired animal. He seemed unaffected by the rancid smell. His gaze swept over the class without interest, then turned back to focus on the buck. He gazed at it for several long moments, then turned and spoke to the class.

“We have before us a victim, possibly a hapless victim of an accident, perhaps the victim of a vicious and deliberate crime.”

He’d paused near the end of that sentence, looking up at the students and emphasizing the words “vicious” and “deliberate” and drawing out the word “crime.” The class was extremely quiet, hanging on his words. Most of the older students near the front of the classroom had cast Bubblehead charms to prevent breathing in the smell coming from the carcass. 

“What,” Sherlock asked, projecting his voice, “is the first thing we do, supposing, of course, that we are called to the scene to investigate?”

“Establish cause of death!” shouted out a very small person, standing on the seat of a desk and waving her arm in the air.

Sherlock looked up slowly. The corner of his mouth twitched.

John grinned.

“Cause of death? Are you quite convinced, then, that our victim is dead?”

“It’s got maggots!” exclaimed a third or fourth year boy, sitting on the aisle about midway back. He pointed to something on the floor – something John couldn’t see – something that made several people squeal. Chairs shuffled again as some students tried to scoot away and others attempted to scoot closer.

“Possible parasitic infestation in living flesh?” suggested Sherlock calmly.

“Living?” An older boy stood from his desk in the middle of the room, challenging Sherlock. John had become accustomed to displays such as these over the past weeks. Sherlock seemed to welcome challengers and the students were becoming much braver of late.

“Ah – Anderson. Come up here, then.”

John grinned. Anderson had no idea that his seeming popularity with Sherlock had everything to do with his unfortunate surname and nothing at all to do with any innate talent for crime solving.

Anderson stood and gave an exaggerated, resigned sigh. He trudged up to the front of the classroom.

“So, Anderson,” began Sherlock, moving away from the lectern and positioning himself opposite his student, on the far side of the carcass. “You believe that our victim is deceased.”

A wave of laughter went through the room, suddenly halted when Sherlock looked up, frowning. When the room was silent again, he stepped over the yellow tape and walked carefully around the dead animal, studying it from multiple angles.

“How would one determine that a victim is, in fact, deceased?” Sherlock asked suddenly, spinning to face Anderson.

“A deceased victim won’t have a heartbeat,” Anderson stated. He looked smug. John smiled. Sherlock wouldn’t let this one go.

“And does this victim have a heartbeat?” Sherlock asked.

“No, because it’s dead,” answered Anderson.

Several students giggled. John worked hard to keep from joining them.

“And you know it’s dead because….?” Sherlock prompted. “I haven’t exactly seen you take its pulse.”

Anderson shrugged. “It’s not moving,” he said.

Sherlock’s wand was in his hand in half a second.

“Neither are you,” he said with a smile.

Anderson froze in mid-squeak and Sherlock stepped around him and faced the class.

“Right. We have a victim who, as Mr. Anderson correctly observed, is not moving. I have just demonstrated that lack of movement is not an absolute indicator of death.” He flicked his wand again and Anderson recovered. Sherlock pointed to the boy’s seat and glared at him as he returned to it. 

Sherlock scanned the room, then, his eyes settling on John. He beamed. John considered making a quick escape. “In my practice in the Muggle world, I rely on professionals to make these determinations. One such professional is a medical doctor, and we are indeed fortunate to have one with us today. John – care to assist?”

“Actually, I was hoping to observe to –”

“Excellent!” Sherlock cut in. “Show the class how you would determine if the victim is dead if you happened upon this scene.”

John folded his arms and glared at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at him expectantly. Most of the class had turned and was staring at John as well. A few of the older girls near the front of the room were frowning.

“Oh for God’s sake, Sherlock,” John muttered, pushing away from the wall. He made his way up to the front of the classroom and stood next to Sherlock, feeling more than a little ridiculous next to this victim which had clearly died of old age, possibly quite some time ago.

“John Watson,” Sherlock said, waving his arm at John and beaming at the students, then turning back to John. “John, please determine if our victim is deceased.”

John looked at Sherlock, then at the buck, then back at Sherlock.

“I’m not James Bloody Herriot,” he muttered.

Sherlock smiled. “No idea who that is,” he said under his breath. John continued staring. “Take the deer’s pulse, John.” A faltering smile. “Please?”

John released a breath. He glanced down at the deer again. The deer was dead. There was no question about it. It hadn’t moved in all the time it had been in the room. Its neck was twisted at an unusual angle. There was some blood on the ground but the animal obviously wasn’t bleeding now.

“Fine,” he muttered at last, mouthing “You owe me” so that only Sherlock could see.

He made a show of walking around the carcass slowly, then crouched down and lifted a heavy hoof in his hand, pretending to feel for a pulse.

“Dead!” he announced no more than three seconds later. He let go of the hoof and stood up quickly, wrinkling his nose. The smell was worse than the odours that often emanated from the refrigerator at 221B.

“Cause of death?” asked Sherlock, not missing a beat.

“Cause of death?” John stared at Sherlock incredulously. “I’ve only just now declared him – it – dead.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Sherlock.

They stared at each other some more. John was the first to look away.

He blew out a breath. “Fine.” He looked around the clearing. Hagrid was standing at the tree line, combing his fingers through his beard to work out the pine needles.

“Hagrid! How did this buck die?” John called out. He really didn’t want to examine the thing any more closely than he already had. Touching it had about as much appeal of running out to buy milk on a cold, rainy London night because _someone_ took the milk out of the fridge in order to fit in a human leg, and left it on the counter for twenty-four hours.

“No cheating!” exclaimed Sherlock before Hagrid could reply. He took John’s wrist and pulled him forward. “John – please! Play along. The children _need_ this lesson.” He pulled John in even closer and whispered something in his ear.

Oh. John looked at Sherlock with interest.

“Tonight?” he mouthed.

Sherlock nodded.

“Twice?” 

Sherlock glared. John glared back. Sherlock sighed and nodded.

“Right, then.” John circled the carcass while the class remained perfectly silent. This was new. Professor Holmes’ partner was recognized around the school, as were the spouses and partners of a few other faculty members. The Muggleborns, in particular, were fascinated by the famous detective’s equally famous sidekick and blogger. Over the months, John had grown accustomed to the whispers and even the giggles when he went about the castle, and had learned that with this class of Sherlock groupies, a certain amount of discretion was necessary. He and Sherlock might walk together, side by side, but didn’t give their student fan club any more – no hand holding, kissing, arguing, or touching of any kind. Sherlock grabbing his wrist moments earlier had been a surprising move, and John knew it hadn’t gone completely unnoticed by the class. 

After completing a silent first circuit of the downed deer, John knelt beside it and reluctantly examined it, palpating certain areas with a great deal of disgust. He had only a vague idea where deer kept their vital organs and if he did manage to find an organ such as the liver, would have nothing to compare it to to determine if it were enlarged. After a perfunctory examination, what he did know was that this particular stag was clearly emaciated, had large bald patches, and sported some nasty looking weepy sores.

“Where’s the forensics team with the bloody gloves when you need them?” he muttered.

His answer was a snapping sound above him. He tilted his head upward to find Sherlock casually stretching a pair of latex gloves. 

John held a hand up and allowed Sherlock to play nurse and pull it on.

“Why are they giggling?” whispered Sherlock as he rolled the second glove down onto John’s wrist.

“Really, Sherlock?” John asked as Sherlock smoothed the bottom edge of the glove down.

Sherlock’s hand froze.

“Oh.” He dropped his hand away quickly and took a step back. He turned a rather inviting shade of pink.

John, grateful for the gloves, got back to work and prodded the animal’s neck again, frowning.

“Broken neck,” he announced.

Sherlock looked pleased.

“Professor Holmes?” A girl near the front had her hand in the air and a nearly desperate look on her face.

“Yes?” asked Sherlock.

The girl looked smug. “How does a stag break its neck?” she asked. “I hardly think it fell out of a tree.”

More giggles. Sherlock held his hand up as Hagrid started to try to interject something. He gave the girl a slightly sour look.

“Let the doctor work,” he instructed.

“You mean vegeteranian,” corrected a small boy with very thick glasses. “In the Muggle world, vegeteranians are animal doctors.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Sherlock.

John tried his best to ignore them. He’d managed, with a great deal of effort and a bit of help from Hagrid, to roll the creature to its side.

“Heart’s been removed,” John commented, staring at the gaping empty cavern in the animal’s chest. He glanced crossly up at Sherlock. What the hell was Sherlock playing at here?

Sherlock was looking at Hagrid, making a cutting motion on his throat with his finger while half the students made gagging noises and the other half pressed forward for a better look.

“Broken neck, missing heart,” John said, making sure his voice projected so the entire class could hear. “Seems rather obvious, doesn’t it?” He stood. “ _Too_ obvious.”

“Brilliant, John!” Sherlock was practically beaming at him. “If it seems too obvious….”

“It probably is.”

John sidled around behind Sherlock, pressing unnecessarily close to him and grazing his hips against Sherlock’s arse as he passed. He knelt next to the creature’s head.

“Most investigators would stop looking for cause of death when presented with a victim with a broken neck and a missing heart,” Sherlock lectured his class. “But they are, as you have undoubtedly learned by this time, foolish and naïve.” He walked forward a few dramatic paces so that he stood in the central aisle. He spun on one heel, pivoting on the spot and ending up facing the same direction. His feat was greeted with a smattering of applause and a couple of wolf whistles. “What else should the good doctor check?” He scanned his classroom. “Gavin or Graham?”

“You called on us last time, Professor,” answered a dark haired boy. An identical dark haired boy sat beside him.

“You call on them _every_ time,” added the girl beside him.

John rolled his eyes. More likely than not, the only names Sherlock remembered were the ones that reminded him of his consulting detective life on Baker Street.

“Fine – then you may answer instead,” Sherlock told the girl. “Your name?”

“Oh – I didn’t want to….”

“Your _name_?”

The girl looked at her friends for courage. 

“Irena,” she said at last. “Irena Addington.”

John had to bite the back of his hand to keep from laughing at the look on Sherlock’s face.

“Well, then – Miss Addington,” sputtered Sherlock. “What should Dr. Watson do next?”

Irena looked at her friends again, but they giggled and shrugged. “Um – check for poisoning?” she suggested. She appeared to be grasping at straws. “Perhaps it was hit by a poison dart?”

John wanted to point out that Muggles used toxicology to check for poison, but he didn’t voice the thought – his luck, the Room would provide a lab and he wouldn’t have the least idea what to do. Besides, that was Molly’s game. John just came along to chase after Sherlock and keep him out of trouble. 

Sherlock, however, seemed delighted with Irena’s suggestion.

“And how can Dr. Watson determine if the victim has been poisoned?” Sherlock asked the small Irena, taking a few steps forward. John saw a sixth or seventh year girl reach out to touch his robes with a look of awe.

“He could look for the puncture from a dart,” she suggested helpfully.

“Yes, he could,” said Sherlock. “An excellent idea. John – ”

“The victim is far too large,” John insisted. “You’ll have to help me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked back at Irena. “Any other ideas?” he asked.

“Smell its breath?” Irena suggested in a small voice.

“Smell its breath,” repeated Sherlock gravely. He nodded his head as if considering the suggestion. “John – smell the victim’s breath.”

John rolled his eyes. “It’s not exactly breathing,” he said.

A few students snickered.

Sherlock turned to look at him. “Twice,” he mouthed.

John rolled his eyes again, then looked at the buck. Reluctantly, he pried open the expansive mouth. He peered past the teeth and bloated, disgusting tongue, focusing on something at the back of the throat. “Interesting.”

It took a couple minutes to force his gloved finger past the obstruction, but in the end he dislodged it. He let the beast’s head flop back to the floor as he held up a slobbery apple then tossed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t break character as he snatched the repulsive thing from the air and held it up. 

“We have a victim with a broken neck, a missing heart and an apple lodged in the throat. Yet we have, as of yet, no clear indication of how the victim died.”

John stood and dusted off his trousers. “Are we pretending we walked in here and found it dead and that Hagrid didn’t actually haul it in here and cover it with a tarp before class started?”

“Yes,” answered Sherlock shortly. He glared at John.

“Fine. The heart was removed after death. Not enough blood on the carcass at the site of extraction for it to have happened while the victim’s heart was pumping.”

“Perhaps it’s a ruse?” said a voice from the rear. “A red herring? Perhaps the perpetrator shampooed the victim after extracting the heart?”

“Shampooed the victim,” repeated Sherlock contemplatively. He glanced back at John. “Dr. Watson?”

John signed and knelt down beside the body again. Despite his extreme reservations about what he was about to do, he nevertheless bent his head and sniffed.

“No shampoo,” he said. He looked at Sherlock and mouthed “three times.”

Sherlock shook his head. John held up three fingers.

“Aren’t we supposed to investigate the crime scene?” asked one of the seventh-year fan clubbers.

“Excellent suggestion.” Sherlock looked at John disapprovingly. “Unfortunately, Dr. Watson has contaminated the environment.”

“This is ridiculous, Sherlock.” John was tired of playing along and frankly, the dead stag looked and smelled like it had spent its last hours rolling in spilled sewage. By now, he’d do about anything to end this silly investigation and distract Sherlock with the promised recreational activities. “Hagrid found this geriatric old buck aimlessly wandering about in the forest, looking for a spot to expire from old age. He followed him, waiting for him to drop over dead, then removed the heart to feed to that baby dragon we’re not supposed to know he has, heaved the carcass on his shoulder and accidentally dropped it on its head, breaking its neck. The apple – well, I suppose it must have been planted to make the death look accidental.”

The classroom erupted in applause. 

“Perfec’!” boomed Hagrid, beaming. “He’s brilliant, Perfessor Holmes. Got it all ‘xactly right!”

“Professor Holmes, may we see where the heart was?” The little girl asking the question couldn’t be more than eleven and was far more excited than she should be at the prospect of seeing a bloody chest cavity.

“Of course.” Sherlock’s gaze swept over the crowded room. “Anyone else?”

Two-thirds of the hands in the room began to wave in the air.

“Right. Queue up, then. Hagrid – could you please help Dr. Watson maneuver the victim into position?” Sherlock ripped down a long strip of crime scene tape and beckoned to Hagrid.

“This isn’t the only victim I’ll be moving into position this afternoon,” John muttered as he squeezed between Sherlock and Hagrid. 

Hagrid’s eyes widened, and he looked from John to Sherlock, then from Sherlock to John. His eyebrows slid upward until they joined forces with his hair. Then his cheeks turned a deep crimson and he hurriedly helped John roll the stag into position.

“One look – no reaching into the chest cavity,” Sherlock instructed the queue. “Homework for next week is to determine what happens to deer ticks that are attached to a deer when it dies. Yes – you may examine the victim to determine the extent of parasitic infestation.”

John, despite his current position, shook his head fondly. He knew he was in over his head when ‘parasitic infestation’ coming from Sherlock’s mouth sounded sexy.

ooOoo

“Three times? Are you certain I promised that?” asked Sherlock some time later. He held up his hands, flexing his fingers. “It’s exhausting, John.”

“I gave you an excellent blow job after the first time, and shagged you after the second,” John reminded him. He prodded Sherlock’s thigh with his very relaxed toes. Foot rubs from Sherlock’s sinfully dexterous fingers were only one of the fringe benefits of life with the detective-turned-professor. “But since you did such a good job, and since you’re such an excellent shag, I’ll let you stop at two.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock smiled vaguely, appearing to be considering John’s offer. “If I deliver a third round, what will the reward be?”

“Tea in bed?” offered John, rolling to his side and nuzzling Sherlock’s throat. 

“Hmm. I was rather hoping you might like to - ”

“Let you shag me this time?” John kissed up Sherlock’s throat. He was absolutely relaxed enough for what he thought Sherlock had in mind.

“Rub my feet.”

John laughed. “You drive a hard bargain, Sherlock.”

“I could ask you to help prepare the lesson plan for next Friday’s class.”

“Only if I get to be the detective and you have to be the sidekick.”

“I refuse to sniff the victim to see if he’s been shampooed.”

John laughed and snuggled in more tightly against Sherlock. “Go to sleep, Sherlock,” he said with a yawn.

For a few minutes, the only sound in the room was their quiet breathing. Then Sherlock shifted, and whispered.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“I think – next week – we should have a field trip. Perhaps Lestrade – ”

“No.”

“But London is – ”

“No.”

“Bart’s? Molly would – ”

“No.”

“We could bring Molly here, or possibly Lestrade. Surely Mycroft could arrange – ”

John put his hand over Sherlock’s mouth. “I know you miss it, Sherlock. But the holidays are coming soon. We’ll have Lestrade scare up a few cases for you. Get it out of your system.” He snuggled back in, and closed his eyes. He was very nearly asleep when Sherlock spoke again.

“I’ll never have it out of my system.”

“No, you won’t,” answered John. He sighed. “Bart’s. Fifth years and up. No wands. We’re not taking the tube. Mycroft had better have the best Obliviator on the force at the ready in case anyone slips up. Now go to sleep.”

John drifted off in no time, but Sherlock, of course, was much too excited to sleep.

_TBC_


End file.
